Silent Exchange
by Dailenna
Summary: [Royai] He doesn't know how to tell her, but does it really need to be said?


**Disclaimer: **I do not own FMA or any of its characters. They belong to Arakawa Hiromu.

"**Silent Exchange**" by** Dailenna**

He looks down at the papers before him in disgust, all crying out for various needs. These needs aren't what disgust him, but rather the idea that they should all choose to turn to him.

His eyes dart through each of them hungrily, scanning for any he would have to deny. Grasping the ideas of them, he sorts between them, putting those he disagrees with towards the front, and those he could easily assign items to towards the back. All most of them need is a quick signature, but this he left for later.

A few pages need a little more attention than his sign of approval, and he brings those forward, studying them now. For this one, he will have to go to visit the Supplies Department and see what they have. That one requires that he pass it on the Investigations. Ooh, and so did this one.

The papers are dropped messily on the desk as his ears catch the sound of approaching footsteps. He rubs a hand roughly through his hair, and sits back in his chair. No wait, they are passing. He leans forward and looked over the notes quickly, rearranging them as best as he can before glancing up at the clock.

It is only another minute before another set of footsteps approach the door. He slumps down in his chair quickly and rests his head on his hand. He just adds the final touch of tapping his fingers on the desk when the door opens and she comes in.

She spares him a glance. "Good Morning, sir." Her voice penetrates the near silence of the room, joining the ticking of the clock and the tapping of his fingers. Finally, some melody to add to his percussion.

"Morning, Lieutenant. How was your evening?"

She sets down her bag and goes to sit at her desk. "It was fine, sir. And your own?" she asks, somewhat more stiffly than he had hoped.

He sighs dramatically. "Lonely," he 'admits' (he has waited for this moment in hopes that she will think something – say something – do something).

"That's unusual," she tells him.

For a moment he takes hope that she is finding an interest in his personal life, somehow. "It's becoming a worrying trend."

She looks up and seems to hesitate to speak, but eventually finds her voice. "I meant this," she says, waving a few letters around. "Did someone get my mail for me?"

Oh. All the same, he smiles proudly. "When Havoc went to get mine, I told him to pick up yours too."

"How generous of you," she says wryly, opening an envelope. Her eyes dart over the contents of it for a few lines before she looks back up. "Care to get to work, sir?"

"But it's such a nice day. I wouldn't want to waste it on –"

"Care to get to work, _sir_?" she repeats a little more forcefully.

He pauses, seeing the menacing gleam glinting in her eye. "Of course." His head is down-turned and his eyes go to his work, but his ears remain pricked. She has returned to reading her letter.

While his eyes move along the page, he doesn't see those ink marks anymore. He looks up tentatively, and sees that she is immersed in the mail she has received. He can't read her expression – it is too business-like and efficient. After a few minutes of shuffling through various letters, she puts down all papers and leaves to get her own paperwork. He stands slowly as he door closes behind her, and then darts over to her desk.

There it sits, under another of the letters, a messy scrawl in the form of a spilt out heart. She saw it, but didn't react. What should he think of that? Disheartened, he returns to his own desk, impatiently tapping his pen on the wood to the tempo of his thoughts.

When she returns, arms filled with papers, she gives a curious look to him and gets to work, scritching her approval along the bottom of a page every minute or so. Finally, the tapping seems to get to her.

"Sir?"

"Hmm?"

"You don't need to tell me. I already know."

His eyes widen in surprise, but the curve to her lips quiets any response he had almost blurted out. Her silent answer is enough for him. His own mouth curves in reply, and they both get back to work – heads down, pens scratching away, and new ideas forming in each mind.


End file.
